


Edge of a Knife

by EmilianaDarling



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Marking, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo and Thorin started dating, there might have been a few things that didn’t quite add up. Thorin always tried to avoid talking about his job, he always seemed to be surrounded by men that he worked with, and his family was more than a little strange. </p><p>The realization that Thorin was the head of an organized crime ring, however, was more than Bilbo ever bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! So I’ve been rather swamped with my thesis lately, and my mindset hasn’t been too conducive to writing the next chapter of Mountains. But I saw this prompt (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5668417#t5668417) on the kinkmeme and had a sudden desperate need to write a fill for it. I thought I would share the first chapter with you guys as an apology for taking a while to update. <3 
> 
> It’s the second fill for this prompt, but hopefully some of you will still be interested in giving it a read! As always, updates are available at my tumblr (emilianadarling.tumblr.com).

From Monday to Friday, Pelennor Park seemed to exist in a state of perpetual dormancy. Aside from ever-present early morning joggers and the occasional elderly visitor, the park’s green grass fields, muddling dirt paths, and quaint little duck ponds went largely without outside appreciation for the vast majority of the week.

By contrast, Sunday afternoons in the park were always exceptionally crowded affairs. For Bilbo, whose job did not require him to shackle himself to a desk for eight hours a day five days a week, the contrast was especially pronounced. Families came out in droves for picnics, couples walked hand in hand feeding seed to ducklings, and equestrians even took the opportunity to show off their horses. It was questionable whether, all things considered, Sundays were a particularly good day to visit the park at all. 

They were the only day that Bilbo had his nephew Frodo all to himself, however, and so Sunday was always the day they came. Today they were walking along one of the park’s well-worn paths at an easy stroll, Frodo just having polished off the ice cream treat Bilbo had bought for him.

“So now that I’ve sufficiently spoiled your appetite for lunch,” Bilbo began in a teasing voice, and next to him Frodo gave him a chocolate-smeared grin. A little chocolate wouldn’t hurt the boy, after all. Even though Bilbo loved Drogo and Primula dearly, he was the first to admit that they tended to keep Frodo on a fairly tight leash. He could probably do with little bit of spoiling here or there once a week. Smiling, Bilbo reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue, which Frodo obediently took. “ _You_ promised to tell me all about your week at school.”

Standing only as tall as Bilbo’s middle, Frodo nodded as he wiped at his mouth without being instructed to do so. At seven years old, Frodo had already claimed the title of Bilbo’s favourite person in the whole world. He was round-cheeked and a little bit lanky from all the time spent outdoors, but his love for stories made him forever eager to read or be read to. He had his mother’s eyes; so strikingly blue that they looked too old for his young face, and they seemed even brighter against the dark of his curls.   

Frodo was also an exceptionally _thoughtful_ child. While he certainly had a mischievous streak that his cousins were always trying to play up, the fact that he spent most of his life around adults was very much apparent in the way he acted.

“It was good,” said Frodo after a long, considering pause. He nodded seriously. “We planted beans in clear jars to see how they grew. Sam’s grew the best, but he helped me make mine sprout really high too.”

“That was kind of him,” said Bilbo, cocking his head. He didn’t particularly believe in talking down to any child, but Frodo in particular had always enjoyed being conversed with like an adult. “Sam’s the one with the crush, isn’t he? On... oh, what’s her name... Mary?”

“Uncle _Bilbo_ ,” Frodo chastised him, laughing a little. “Her name’s _Rosie_. Sam’s in love with her.” He said the last part without any doubt at all, as though it was the truest thing in the world. Bilbo smoothed his mouth into a serious line.

“Is he now? Goodness. Do you think he’ll still feel that way next year?”

Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment. “I think so,” he said after a pause, nodding firmly. His little face lit up the next moment, blue eyes shining. “And Merry and Pippin taught me how to cartwheel, did I tell you?”

Ignoring the non sequitur, Bilbo shook his head. “You didn’t, but you should show me.”

“Okay!” said Frodo excitedly, visibly bursting with the desire to prove himself. He charged off the path and onto an open stretch of field.

 “Stay on the grass,” Bilbo warned, raising his voice to be heard, “and be careful!”

He watched as Frodo raised his arms in the air, rocked himself backward and then forward  – before throwing himself into a very wobbly cartwheel. From a few feet away and with a huge grin on his face, Bilbo clapped his approval.

“I can do it better!” Frodo called back, starting another cartwheel. It went better than the last one, and with a cry of victory he kept on going into another without pausing. “I can keep doing it!” he shouted gleefully, a whirl of limbs and black curls rolling and rolling in haphazard enthusiasm. Bilbo was starting to feel dizzy just from looking at him. “I think I can go forever!”

He was about to call out and say that _as long as you don’t make yourself sick you can do what you like, lad_ —when a trio of men dressed in dark clothes suddenly came around a large rosebush, moving into where there had previously been open field. Frodo had been keeping his cartwheels in a fairly tight circle, but the circle was getting wider and sloppier the dizzier he got. With horror, Bilbo realized that Frodo was headed straight for the men, none of whom had seen him.

“Frodo!” Bilbo called out, and when Frodo didn’t even slow down he started into a run. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The three men took notice of his shout and just managed to see the tiny flail of limbs heading toward them, but didn’t seem to know how to react to it in time.“Frodo, stop, you’re –”

**_Smack._ **

With an audible sound of collision, Frodo’s small body crashed right into the man in the centre of the three – the one with long dark hair and a trimmed beard.

The man had been too solid to be knocked over by all the weight of a seven-year-old boy, and Frodo had been knocked back onto his bottom. When Bilbo reached the cluster of people his eyes skimmed right over the shocked-looking man and landed on Frodo, who was sprawled with an expression of dazed surprise on his small face.

“Frodo, are you all right?” Bilbo asked, worry clutching desperately at his chest. He knelt down and placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. After a moment, his nephew blinked and then nodded.

“M’fine,” he mumbled, rubbing at his head. He looked up at Bilbo, wincing. “M’sorry.”

“I told you to be careful,” Bilbo reprimanded him – but one look at Frodo’s shamefaced expression made him realize that there was no real need. He sighed, reaching to help Frodo to his feet. “It’s okay. Now you know for next time.”

There the sound of someone clearing their throat, and with a spasm of shock Bilbo looked up at the cluster of three men.

All of them were looking down at himself and Frodo as though they were a veritable spectacle. They were all bearded, but other than that they could not have looked more dissimilar. The one on the left was young and had long dirty-blond hair, and the one of the right was much older with long grey hair and whiskers. And the one in the middle – _the one that Frodo had actually crashed into,_ he reminded himself– was...

Bilbo felt his heart catch in his chest.

“Oh my god,” said Bilbo, heat rushing to his face. “Oh my god, I’m _so sorry_. He just got a little excited and bit out of control and – oh my goodness, I really do apologize. Are you okay?”

The man in the centre was tall and very broad, with a dark beard and long hair that was ever-so-slightly streaked with grey. His eyes were light blue and attentive, and he seemed to be watching Bilbo and Frodo with a look of genuine curiosity on his face.

And he was horribly, _painfully_ attractive. Not classically handsome, not pretty, but _attractive_ in a way that made Bilbo feel dangerously close to babbling out nonsense. The dark blue of his button-up made him stand out from his companions, both of whom were dressed in dark browns and blacks.

After a moment, the man held out a hand. It was a big hand, several of the thick fingers decorated with silver rings, and it took Bilbo far too long to realize that he was offering to help them up. The two other men looked surprised as well, but Bilbo took the hand gratefully and pulled Frodo to his feet at the same time.

“Yours?” the man asked, his voice a deeper than Bilbo had expected. He blinked.

“Pardon?” he asked stupidly. A half a moment later, he realized. “Oh! You mean – oh, no, Frodo’s my cousin.”

“ _Nephew_ ,” Frodo insisted childishly, and Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He reached over to pat away some of the dirt that had accumulated on Frodo’s clothes in order to give his hands something to do. He swatted distractedly at the dust and grass.

“Well, we _call_ you my nephew, Frodo, but you’re really – no matter.” Bilbo straightened, giving the man another apologetic look. “I really do apologize. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

But the man did not even have the chance to respond before Frodo was tugging at Bilbo’s waistcoat. He stood on his tiptoes, and Bilbo leaned forward – only for Frodo to ask “Uncle Bilbo, why does the man have _badger_ hair?” in a whisper so loud it could likely be heard clearly by everyone there. Bilbo’s face flushed hotter with mortification, and he found himself rather wishing that the world would open up and swallow the two of them whole.

 “ _Frodo Baggins_ ,” Bilbo snapped, flustered and appalled, and Frodo looked suddenly terrified. “Do you have any idea how rude that is? You apologize to –”

“Thorin,” the man supplied helpfully, a small smile on his face, and Bilbo barely registered the sight of his companions looking at him as though he had grown a second head.

“—to Mr. Thorin _immediately_. It’s not okay to ask people that kind of question.”

“Well, actually – Frodo, is it?” asked Thorin, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with Frodo. “It’s not okay to ask most people that question, but you can ask me if you like. I have grey in my hair because I’m getting older –” he shot Bilbo an amused look over the top of Frodo’s head – “and because I’ve led a very long and exciting life. But people don’t usually like being reminded that they’re old, so it’s best not to ask. Does that make sense?”

Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment, then nodded. “It does!” he said, smiling up at Thorin. “Thank you.  Sorry I was rude.”

“Quite all right,” said Thorin, nodding in much the same way one might nod to a business associate. He raised himself up from the ground, making Bilbo realize all at once that Thorin was quite a bit taller than he had thought at first. When he turned to look at Bilbo, there was an amused little smile tugging at his lips.

“I have nephews, too,” said Thorin in brief explanation, and there was such _confidence_ about the way he spoke and held himself – such utter certainty about everything he said or did – that made Bilbo feel quite ridiculous by comparison. He pulled Frodo close so that his nephew’s back was pressed against his legs, Bilbo’s arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders.

“Now, there is a favour I’d like to ask you in return for the inconvenience,” Thorin continued, looking Bilbo right in the eyes.

“Of course,” Bilbo hurried to say, feeling rather overwhelmed. In front of him, Frodo fidgeted slightly.

“Come to dinner with me.”

The statement  – not a question, almost a kindly-worded _demand_ – came out of absolutely nowhere, leaving Bilbo wide-eyed and completely at a loss for words. In front of him, Frodo seemed to be perking up with interest again. Bilbo blinked, hesitating, eyeing both Thorin and his companions in an attempt to discern if this was some kind of joke.

Neither of Thorin’s companions seemed amused, though. _Surprised_ , yes, and perhaps a bit bewildered. The one with blond hair looked as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop from blurting something out, and the older one’s air of quiet competence had softened considerably. But neither of them gave any hint that the request might be mean-spirited in nature.

And Thorin... Thorin just stared right at him, never moving his eyes away. Calm and self-assured and utterly in command of both himself and the situation, patiently waiting for Bilbo’s response.

“Are you serious?” Bilbo asked, stumbling over the words a little. In front of him, Thorin continued to hold his gaze, and Bilbo couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were very pale indeed. Thorin crossed his arms, raising a single thick eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, sounding slightly amused.

“I... okay,” Bilbo replied at last, practically surprising himself with the acceptance. “If you want. Does... does next week work for you at all, or –?”

“How about tonight?” Thorin interjected, cutting him off before he could even finish the sentence. Bilbo felt his eyebrows fly up into his hairline. It was an eager sentiment, but Thorin didn’t seem to feel any need to put on a show of distance. He emanated confidence with his every gesture and word too strongly for that.

“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, swallowing hard. “Oh, um. Thank you, but... I’m spending tonight with Frodo,” he finished awkwardly, giving his nephew a squeeze. “Perhaps another –”

“S’okay, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo piped up, tilting his head up and grinning against Bilbo’s stomach. “Mum will be home at four, she said so. I don’t mind.”

“Then it’s decided,” Thorin cut in smoothly, leaving Bilbo blinking at the speed of which his evening’s plans had apparently been taken over by a complete stranger. Thorin reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a very expensive-looking cell phone, and gave Bilbo a quizzical look. “Your number?”

Still feeling dazed, Bilbo gave it to him. He was about to provide his name as well, realizing in a wince of embarrassment that he hadn’t properly introduced himself, but Thorin entered his name into the contact without being prompted. He winced; he didn’t think he’d ever been introduced to someone so achingly good-looking as ‘Uncle Bilbo’ before. Once his number was entered into the phone, Thorin slid it back into his pocket with a small smile.

“I’ll send you a text with the restaurant’s address. Shall we meet there at seven?”

“Okay,” said Bilbo, his voice perhaps a little higher than usual. “That... yes, okay, sure.”

When Thorin extended his hand a moment later, it took Bilbo ever-so-slightly too long to realize what he wanted. Feeling very surreal indeed, he reached out and slipped his hand into Thorin’s. They shook, Thorin’s palm cool and rough against his own. Something clenched in his chest at how completely Thorin’s hands dwarfed his own as they shook.

“It was lovely to meet you, Bilbo,” Thorin said, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, before crouching down and solemnly giving Frodo’s hand a shake as well. “You as well, Frodo.”

With that, Thorin stood. And the three men – two of whom had never even spoken a single word, and Bilbo didn’t even think to get their _names_ – turned on their heels and walked away. From his many visits to the park over the years, Bilbo realized they were heading to the closest parking lot.

In his arms, Frodo was starting to fidget again. All Bilbo could do, however, was stand and stare and wonder what on earth had just happened.

 

\--

 

Just as Thorin had promised, Bilbo received a text with the chosen restaurant’s address only ten minutes after their meeting in the park. Because he was occupied with driving Frodo home, however, he didn’t actually get the opportunity to check it until some time later.

The two of them chatted in the car on the way to Frodo’s house, Bilbo attempting to distract himself from the utterly surreal events at the park. Frodo did most of the talking, from describing the stages of growth of a plant to complaining about the ‘old-timey’ radio station that Bilbo always played in the car to insisting that he _could_ probably cartwheel forever if he wanted to. Even though Bilbo made all the right noises in all the right places, however, his mind was very much not on the conversation at hand.

They arrived at Frodo’s house just as his mother Primula was pulling into the driveway, which meant it was impossible for Bilbo to go anywhere until he’d had two cups of tea in the garden, half a plate of biscuits, and heard everything there was to know about their recent household renovations. After a suitable amount of familial visiting time had elapsed, however, Bilbo excused himself with a hug and a kiss and headed back home.

Because Drogo and Primula had moved into the same suburb as him (which was largely pleasant and only very rarely unfortunate), it only took a few minutes before Bilbo was on his own front step. The key twisted smoothly in the bass lock, allowing the green door to swing open as he walked inside.

His house _– Bag End,_ the realtor had tried to tell him, but it was such a silly name that he’d never been able to say it with a straight face – was small, quaint, and in his opinion absolutely perfect. The walls were a soft beige lined with light wood trim, and every room seemed to soak up the sun. Absolutely everything in Bilbo’s house was made for comfort, from the well-stocked pantry to the soft reddish-brown of his bed linens to the spacious office he used for writing. He worked from home, and as such needed his space to be both restful and energizing; when he had stepped through the front door for the first time all those years ago, it had all seemed too good to be true.

Bilbo hadn’t purchased Bag End for any of those reasons, though: more than anything else, he had bought it for the garden.

While the front garden hosted a few very lovely rosebushes, it was the back garden that Bilbo loved above all else. A rambling sprawl of flowerbeds and narrow pathways, every inch of the back garden thrummed with life. Plants of every colour, nature, and purpose seemed to burst from every corner, with medicinal herbs and brilliant blooms and fruit trees all clustered together and reaching up into the sun. Other than a small breakfast table and a trellis for the wisteria to grow on, Bilbo had done very little to change it since moving in.

Still buzzing with an excitement he tried to ignore, Bilbo came inside, kicked off his shoes – he preferred going barefoot whenever possible – and headed into the garden. As soon as he was settled into the breakfast table, he finally checked his phone.

He stared at it for far longer than necessary, reading and re-reading the very extremely brief message. 

_From:  654-383-4491_  
September 20 th, 3:36pm  
The location is 1753 West Emnet Drive. I look forward to seeing you. – T  
  


A furrow grew between his eyebrows as he read the message again, letting out a small noise of disappointment. It was a bit of a strange message; overly formal and even slightly abrupt, and so very different from the warm and _interested_ way that Thorin had treated him in the park just a few hours ago. Bilbo deflated slightly, wondering if he had badly misjudged the entire encounter. With a little twinge of regret, he copied the address into his phone’s browser so that he could at least have an idea of where they were going.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, then.

He was definitely going to have to change for dinner.

 

\--

 

When Bilbo arrived at the restaurant a few hours later, having spent the bus ride into town largely worrying about being stood up, he was both pleased and mildly surprised to find Thorin waiting for him outside. He was unmistakable even from a distance, long hair swept back into a low ponytail and dressed in a smart-looking suit, and the sight of him made nervous energy churn in the base of Bilbo’s stomach.

The sheer number of people lined up in the hope of getting a table was also more than a little daunting. They stretched down the block, all of them dressed in evening dresses or suit-jackets and looking progressively more and more impatient the further away from the door they were standing.  _Meduseld_ , its name spelled out in golden letters on the sign above, was an extremely old and highly reputable establishment. He had never been there himself, but the fact that Thorin had decided to wait for him instead of getting in line made Bilbo question his sanity.

Anticipating a long wait in line, Bilbo sped up his pace. He ducked around an imposing-looking man with tattoos on his head and a large beard, giving Thorin a hesitant smile as he got closer. When Thorin caught sight of him, his face shifted from a neutral expression to a wide, shining grin.

“Good evening,” said Bilbo, torn between looking at Thorin and looking at the restaurant. The place was _expensive_ , infamously so. For a few seconds, he experienced a pre-emptive panic attack about how the bill was going to be split.

 “You came,” Thorin greeted him, voice full of a warmth that made Bilbo give him his whole attention. Thorin was impeccably dressed: his dark blue tie was perfectly straight, his shoes practically shone in the lamplight, and now that he was closer it was apparent that Thorin’s suit fitted him so impeccably that Bilbo rather suspected he’d had it custom made. The touches of grey in his long hair were still visible even though he wore it pulled back, but they didn’t spoil the effect. Instead, they somehow made him appear even more regal.

“I did,” Bilbo confirmed, somewhat unsure of what to say.

After some deliberation – as well as some semi-frantic googling to discern what ‘semi-formal to formal’ might mean in this particular instance – Bilbo himself had decided to go with a cream-button up, a grey vest, and a deep red tie. The tie was his favourite part of the outfit by far. He liked colours, enjoyed incorporating them into his wardrobe where he could.  He’d made an attempt at forcing his curls into something manageable, too, but that hadn’t been nearly as successful.

A smile still on his face, Thorin gestured toward the warm lights of _Meduseld_. “Come along, then. We have a reservation.”

“A _reservation_?” asked Bilbo in disbelief, eying the long line of people waiting for tables. Thorin just gave him an amused look, reached out a hand – and placed it in the small of Bilbo’s back, guiding him toward the restaurant doors. It was a small gesture, done seemingly without thought – but the heavy pressure of Thorin’s hand made something white-hot twist in the base of Bilbo’s stomach. They walked right in without being stopped.

Inside, _Meduseld_ was so shiningly gorgeous it made Bilbo suck in an involuntary breath that made Thorin chuckle with obvious pleasure. The main hall was long and dotted with small tables, and the floor and pillars were so subtly but detailed with intricate carvings that it was almost hard to look at them. The insignia of a blazing sun was prominent at the hall’s far end, and many small hints of gold – the napkin rings, the buttons on the wait staff’s uniforms –shone gently in the soft light. 

“How did you possibly get a reservation here with four hours’ notice?” Bilbo hissed, trying not to stare.

Thorin smiled broadly in response, his hand still resting proprietarily against Bilbo’s back. “I know the owner,” he replied, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “He owed me a favour.”

Bilbo was still shaking his head in disbelief when the maître de arrived. He seemed to know who they were without being asked.

“Right this way, Mr. Durinson,” the man said graciously, leading them to a small table in the back corner.  _Thorin Durinson_ , thought Bilbo, rolling the name over in his mind. The name had a bit of a strange rhythm to it, not that he would ever say so out loud.

The maître de moved to pull out Bilbo’s chair for him, but he shooed him away with an embarrassed wave of his hand and mumbled excuses. Honestly, he really didn’t need anyone to _hold his chair out for him_ no matter how ridiculously fancy an establishment might be.

Once they were sufficiently settled, however, a few moments passed with only the hustle and bustle of customers and staff around them to fill the silence. Bilbo licked his lips, remembering to be nervous.

“So,” Bilbo began, the words sounding awkward and stilted to his own ears. He let out a nervous laugh – and just at that moment, a loud vibrating noise cut across them.

The sound was coming from what Bilbo could only assume was Thorin’s cell phone, an insistent buzzing coming from his suit jacket pocket over the back of his chair. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from darting an uncertain look at the source of the noise. Thorin swore quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, sounding truly apologetic – but also very _commanding_ all of a sudden, with none of the playfulness he had greeted Bilbo with outside. His expression was hard, and he was already getting to his feet and plucking his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I need to get this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Putting on what he hoped was an expression of quiet understanding, Bilbo nodded. He watched Thorin leave the restaurant with almost regal efficiency, the phone already open and pressed against his ear by the time he was halfway across the hall. Bilbo looked down at the gorgeously-set table in front of him. All at once, it felt very empty. He took a sip of his ice water.

He sat there, surrounded by the idle chatter of the restaurant patrons and understated string music, a whole new concern tugging persistently at the corners of his mind. Bilbo plucked up the menu, glanced over a few items without really reading them, then dropped it back onto the table restlessly.

Scattered incidents were running through his mind: the choice of restaurant, the impeccable fit of Thorin’s suit, the urgent phone call and abrupt demeanour with which Thorin had answered it. For a few minutes, he tried to come up with things that he and Thorin might have in common – and predictably came up with very few.

The invitation in the park had seemed too good to be true, at first. Perhaps it still was.

 “Sorry about that,” came a low voice that broke through the ambient noise, and Bilbo startled a little in his seat. It was Thorin, who had apparently arrived back at the table without Bilbo even noticing. He had an air of composed apology about him. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Family trouble?” Bilbo asked, taking a stab in the dark. Thorin hesitated, then shook his head.

“Business,” he explained, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Letting people go is always hard, even with good reason. My employee needed some advice.” Thorin gave a small, sardonic smile. “Sometimes it feels as though my employees can’t do anything without me. I haven’t had a proper night off in ages. Anyways, you were saying?”

Caught off guard at the sudden redirection, Bilbo attempted to gather himself together. “I was going to ask what kind of person you have to be for the owner of a place like this to owe you a favour,” he said after a moment, regaining his thread of thought. “And I must say, now I’m doubly curious.”

For a moment, Bilbo thought he saw Thorin’s eyes darken – but it must have been a trick of the candlelight, because moments later he was smiling back in amusement.

“I’m the CEO of a fairly successful firm,” Thorin admitted smoothly, giving a small shrug – as though owning a whole company was no kind of achievement at all. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered how on _earth_ he’d managed to find himself here. “It’s called Arkenstone Limited. It’s dead boring, I promise.” He shrugged. “We’re a professional services firm. Accounting advice, audit information, things like that. The owner of this place had a little bit of trouble with his finances a few months back. We cut him a break.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Bilbo loyally, taking a sip of his ice water.

“It’s not,” said Thorin, giving Bilbo a long-suffering smile. “Trust me, people are usually already snoring in their soup by the time I tell them that much.” At Bilbo’s snort of surprised amusement, Thorin continued. “It’s bittersweet, anyways. The only reason I’m in this position is because it’s a family company; before that, I was... more than a bit unpredictable. My father and grandfather passed away a few years ago. They left it to me.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in Thorin’s voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It was almost a decade ago, now.” Thorin sent him a sad smile across the table. “I’m nearly forty years old; you’d think it would stop hurting by now.”

“It doesn’t,” said Bilbo automatically. His mind drifted to the way his father always used to smell of pipe tobacco, to the way his mother would hum when she cooked. He smiled sadly. “My parents passed away five years ago and sometimes I still wake up in the morning thinking I can call them for advice. Isn’t that stupid?”

“ _No_ ,” Thorin insisted, leaning across the table. His gaze was intent. “No, that’s exactly it. I mean, I still have my family – I live with my sister and her two sons, and they’re _everything_ to me – but it’s just never the same.” He paused, making a small noise in the back of his throat. “When my brother died, the first thing I thought – the very first thing – was _god, I wonder how dad’s going to take it_. My father had been dead for two years, and it was the first thing I thought.”

A flood of horrible sadness washed over him, seeing Thorin with his eyes downcast and dark, and it occurred to Bilbo that perhaps they weren’t too terribly different after all.

Without even thinking about it, Bilbo reached over and placed his hand on top of Thorin’s larger one, which was resting on the table. It wasn’t meant to be a grand gesture; just a quiet acknowledgement of shared pain. A recognition of the fact that the two of them were both human and flawed and probably slightly broken.

Thorin, however, stared at Bilbo’s hand as though it was the most precious thing in the world. After a long, drawn-out moment he tensed – and wrapped his fingers around Bilbo’s own, giving them a squeeze. It made is so they were actively holding hands at the table. Bilbo’s face felt hot and flushed, but he didn’t pull away.

“Enough about me,” said Thorin abruptly, shaking his head as though to clear the topic from the air. “What I’m really interested in is you, Bilbo Baggins.”

“How did you--?” Bilbo asked in surprise, certain that he never introduced himself with a last name – but after a moment, the memory of chastising Frodo with both first and last name came back to him. He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got quite a memory on you, you know that?”

“Only with the things that interest me,” replied Thorin easily. It should have been a lascivious comment, full of flirtation and promise. Somehow, though, it wasn’t. It was just a simple statement of fact, and _that_ made Bilbo feel more flustered than anything. “You know about my job. What do _you_ do for a living?”

“Aha,” Bilbo answered, raising his free hand up to lean his cheek against nervously. “Yes, well. I always hate this part.” He shrugged, feeling his own eyebrows contorting into what was likely a very amusing expression. “... I write?”

“You’re an author,” said Thorin, a mild note of surprise in his voice. “Of what sorts of things? Articles, books?”

Hesitating, Bilbo bit down on his lower lip and sent Thorin a hapless look. “... fantasy novels?”

There was a pause. This, Bilbo knew, was where most people tended to go a bit glassy-eyed. For the most part, people tended to treat his status as a fantasy author as some kind of ticking time bomb; as though he was likely to explode and bombard them with an hour-long lecture on elves at any moment. And even though some of his dates had been impressed at the _idea_ of dating an author, the actual reality of it – of frantic bursts of creativity, of annoyance over writers’ block, of him being immersed in fictional worlds so much of the time – never seemed to appeal.

Male, female, it never seemed to matter: for some reason, his lack of a real job tended to wind up a turn-off. Through long experience, Bilbo had discovered that relative silence was the best way to handle his occupation with most people.

Across from him, Thorin had an impressed look on his face. “Novel _s_?” He asked, stressing the plural. “As in, multiple novels?”

“That’s right,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly. “The _There and Back Again_ series. I have a penname.” He shrugged. “They sell well enough to keep publishing. Not amazingly well, but. Well. I’m working on the fifth in the series now.”

“ _Fifth_?” Thorin asked in incredulity, staring at Bilbo in the most open display of uncensored emotion he’d displayed all evening. “You –” He cut himself off, giving his head a little shake. “You have no idea how remarkable you are, do you? _Five novels_ , that’s... you have an entire world that you created inside your _head_. I could never do that. I’m not sure you understand how _amazing_ that is.”

Mouth slightly open, Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He should say thank you, he knew, but it felt as though he had forgotten how to form sentences properly. Thorin seemed so completely _earnest_ in his praise; he was still staring right at him, the low light making his eyes seem dark and hungry. Looking at Bilbo as though _he_ was the marvel of the two of them.

Their hands still rested together on the table. Thorin’s hand was so much larger than his; rough and heavy, but the gentleness with which he cradled Bilbo’s smaller one was somehow even sweeter because of it.

“You must tell me everything there is to know,” Thorin insisted after long, charged silence. His thumb stroked over Bilbo’s knuckle.

“About the books?” Bilbo asked, feeling rather breathless.

“About everything,” said Thorin matter-of-factly. And so they talked.

They sat in their small corner table in one of the most expensive restaurants in town, talking with an intensity that made it all feel like a dream afterward. They talked over dinner, over dessert, over the two small cups of coffee that came afterward. They talked about family and fantasy, about books and films and where they went to university. Thorin poked fun at the way he fussed with his coffee until it had _just the right amount_ of cream and sugar, and Bilbo teased him right back for how seriously he responded to the simplest of questions.

They talked until the other tables began to clear out, and eventually – his low voice humming with warm certainty – Thorin asked if Bilbo would like a ride home.

And without having to think twice, Bilbo said yes.

 

\--

 

Thorin stealthily settled the bill while Bilbo was in the restroom, effectively solving several problems at once. Hand pressed once again into the small of Bilbo’s back, Thorin guided him effortlessly out of the restaurant, past a man on the street with familiar-looking tattoos on his head, and into the nearby car park.

It was a bit chillier than when they arrived, and Bilbo told himself that was why Thorin held him just that little bit closer; tucked up against his larger body like something small and precious. It was a nice car – sleek and black and doubtless extremely expensive – but Bilbo couldn’t honestly say that he noticed.

When Thorin turned the key in the ignition, the unexpected loudness of the car radio turning on mid-news report made Bilbo jump a little in his seat.

_“—reports continue to come in regarding the recent spike in heroin usage. Police have clamped down on border control in an attempt to stop the drug flowing into the city, but there have been suggestions that –”_

Thorin quickly turned the channel, selecting a soft music station instead. Bilbo was grateful for the switch: upsetting news stories were a little out of place in the moment.

In contrast to the flurry of conversation that had marked their dinner, the drive to Bilbo’s house was almost silent except for the low instrumental music on the radio. Thorin was a good driver, confident and controlled as he was in all things, but the sudden quiet left Bilbo feeling a little bit antsy all the same. He stared out the window in order to avoid looking at Thorin beside him, watching the bright city lights gradually fade into the porch lights and infrequent street lamps of the suburbs.

When Thorin pulled up in front of Bilbo’s house, he turned the keys in the ignition all the way off. It plunged the car into sudden silence as the music cut off, and suddenly it was just the two of them. Sitting alone on Bilbo’s street, neither of them saying anything. Bilbo swallowed, staring down at his lap.

“So,” Bilbo started, after a very long pause. He fidgeted a little, glancing at Thorin and feeling rather too shy for his age. “Would you like to come inside for a coffee, or –”

The rest of the words were lost, however, because Thorin was already leaning over, pushing right into Bilbo’s space. He reached up a broad calloused hand, gripped the nape of Bilbo’s neck – and pulled him into a hard, searing kiss.

Head reeling, a little noise of surprise escaped from Bilbo’s throat – but he was already kissing back, grabbing onto Thorin’s shoulders and letting himself be pushed against the car door.

As with everything else, Thorin seemed to effortlessly take control; guiding Bilbo’s body where he wanted it to go, lips somehow gentle and forceful at the same time. The _smell_ of him was overwhelming in the best way, the tiny hints of aftershave and cedar and something so very _masculine_ that had been making Bilbo shiver throughout the evening suddenly all pressed up against him like a gift. His beard was softer than expected, just the tiniest scratch of stubble against his own clean-shaven face. Bilbo groaned when Thorin’s fingers dragged along his scalp, tangling in his hair, and Thorin took the opportunity to kiss him _hard_ , pressing his tongue inside. 

His seatbelt was in the way, restrictive and tangling, and there was no way that Thorin could be comfortable with the gearshift jabbing into his side. None of it mattered, though. Nothing mattered except the breathless clutching _heat_ between them; the way that Thorin felt so _big_ pressed up against him but all Bilbo could feel was _safe_ and _warm_ and _taken care of_.

They stumbled out of the car a few minutes later, heading toward the house on shaky feet, and Thorin looked so incredibly shaken that Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from feeling proud. Thorin’s eyes were dark and heated, his suit rumpled and his long hair starting to escape the confines of the hair tie. The look he gave Bilbo as he attempted to unlock his front door – as though he was barely holding onto his self-control – made Bilbo fumble with the keys once, twice, before the door swung open.

They were barely through the door before Thorin slammed it shut, grabbed Bilbo by the shoulders – and shoved him up against it, kissing him hard and fast and desperate. He was tall and broad and so much bigger than him, and for a second all Bilbo could think was that Thorin could probably lift him up and press him against the door if he wanted to. The thought made him clutch at Thorin’s shoulders, breathing hard.

He whimpered when Thorin moved his attention to his neck, lips running over the skin until Bilbo gasped as he found the most sensitive spot. Thorin latched onto it, grazing his teeth over before _sucking_ hard, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to Bilbo’s cock. He cried out, hands scrabbling at Thorin’s back. He was sucking hard enough to mark, to _bruise_ , and something about that made Bilbo so turned on he could barely _breathe_.

“I don’t – _ahh_ – I don’t usually do this,” he admitted shakily, and Thorin practically _growled_ in response.

“Good,” he said, the words rumbling against his skin as Thorin dragged his lips up his jaw line, and that just made Bilbo shudder harder.

They made their way to the bedroom in a tangle of limbs, Thorin relying on Bilbo to lead the way, leaving an incriminating trail of clothing behind them. One of them – Bilbo wasn’t sure which – managed to get the bedroom light on, and for an awkward moment both of them struggled with kicking off their socks and shoes.

While Thorin was occupied attempting to unbutton his own shirt, Bilbo reached up on impulse and tugged the elastic out of his hair. Long and black with subtle streaks of grey, Thorin’s hair fell about his face in a flurry – and Bilbo couldn’t help himself from reaching up to run his hands through it

His hair was thick and soft and smelled so _good_ , and Bilbo leaned up to kiss away Thorin’s curious expression. “I like your hair down,” Bilbo explained, running his fingers through it just a little. “It suits you.”

Something soft edged at the corners of Thorin’s expression. He took a step closer, placing a hand on Bilbo’s cheek and bending forwards so that their foreheads were pressed together.

“You’re lovely,” Thorin murmured, eyes closed as he held Bilbo close and just _breathed_. His breath was hot against Bilbo’s face. His hands were shaking. “God, you’re so lovely.”

It wasn’t that Bilbo was a stranger to sex, although his serious relationships had always been few and far between. Girlfriends, boyfriends – none of them had ever seemed to last very long. It had been two years since he had been with anyone, though, and longer since he’d been in anything that could be described as a relationship. Bilbo had realized a long time ago that he simply wasn’t most peoples’ cup of tea; he wasn’t exciting enough, not attractive enough – there were always reasons. But _this_...

It was going to hurt, Bilbo thought, when Thorin realized that he wasn’t anything extraordinary.

He was startled out of his melancholy by the soft, tender press of Thorin’s lips against his own. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile against Thorin’s mouth, secretly enjoying how much Thorin had to lean down  in order for them to kiss. He reached up to unbutton the rest of Thorin’s shirt, sliding it off his shoulders to feel run his hands over his shoulders.

 They broke apart after a moment, and Bilbo’s eyes drifted downwards. He sucked in a shocked breath, eyes blown wide with the unexpected sight in front of him. Thorin’s chest was broad and well-muscled, had a dusting of coarse dark hair – and was absolutely _lined_ with scars.

There were long scars that crept over his shoulders, little circular scars on his chest and stomach, a particularly eye-catching set that almost looked like _claw-marks_. Some were pale and faded and others were still pink, all scattered across his chest like dozens of little mementos. Without even looking, Bilbo knew that the rest of his body would be covered in them too. He reached out to touch the claw-marks across Thorin’s right pectoral, looking up at him in wordless inquiry.

Smiling ruefully, Thorin took Bilbo’s hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss against his fingertips.

“Boxing,” he admitted, then laughed at Bilbo’s incredulous stare. “And proof of a difficult young life, I suppose. I told you I was a bit unpredictable in my youth.” He closed his hand over Bilbo’s fingers, voice suddenly low. “Do you mind them?”

“No!” said Bilbo rather too quickly, which was a bit of an understatement. He flushed, hoping that Thorin wouldn’t realize just how _much_ he didn’t mind the scars. “No, of course not. They’re... you.”

Eyes heavily-lidded, Thorin _groaned_ – as though _that_ of all things was too much – and reached out to strip Bilbo of his shirt in a single brutal movement.

It didn’t take too long after that for the rest of their clothes to come off. Heat pooled in the base of Bilbo’s stomach again as Thorin kneeled in front of him to unbutton his trousers, and if Thorin’s wild-eyed expression was anything to go by he wasn’t far behind.

When both of them stood naked, Bilbo fought the urge to shy away. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat inadequate next to Thorin’s solidity, his own body so much more pale and soft. The way Thorin kept looking at him, though – as though he was something to _devour_ – helped to ease the anxiety. He barely got a chance to take a proper look before Thorin was wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s middle and _pulling_ him back onto the bed, making both of them tumble together onto the soft, clean linen.

 They landed with Thorin on his back on Bilbo on top of him, chest-to-chest, and Thorin lined them up before –

“ _Oh_ ,” Bilbo gasped as their cocks slid against each other, the friction raw and right and _amazing_. He buried his face in Thorin’s shoulder, letting out a breathy moan when he felt two broad hands reach down and clutch at the rounds of his ass. They squeezed and kneaded, physically pulling him closer so that their cocks aligned just _so_.  “Oh, please.”

 “What do you want?” Thorin asked, his voice ragged even though the question itself was gentle. He rolled his hips up, grinding them together and making Bilbo practically _keen_. It had been so long since he’d been touched this way, and everything about tonight was almost too intense for him to handle. “We do whatever you choose. We could continue like this...” He gave Bilbo’s ass a squeeze, sliding them lazily together, and Bilbo breathed hard into the space between his neck and shoulder. “Or I could get you off with my mouth. Or –”

“Fuck me,” Bilbo choked out, bucking hard against Thorin’s cock. He felt hot and flushed just from saying the words out loud, but he wanted it so badly he just couldn’t care. “Please, I want it, just – _please_.”

Beneath him, Thorin tensed up – before slowly, experimentally digging his fingers into the flesh of Bilbo’s cheeks and pulling them gently apart. Bilbo gasped as the cool air touched him, and even though Thorin couldn’t see him from this angle he felt achingly exposed.

 “You want that?” asked Thorin, sounding quietly amazed. “Just like that – nothing before?”

“If you – if you do anything else, I’ll come, just –” Bilbo groaned as he felt a thick, dry finger reach down and trace along the sensitive skin of his hole. He bit down hard on Thorin’s shoulder in response, which made Thorin laugh in surprise instead of flinching away in pain. “Just – _please_.”

The world was spinning, and suddenly Bilbo was sprawled on his back with Thorin pressed tight against him, kissing him _hard_ , and Bilbo moaned against his lips in anticipation. He reached up shakily and ran a hand along Thorin’s long hair, which was spilling over his shoulder as though to make a curtain against the outside world. Thorin pressed a final kiss against Bilbo’s lips before pushing himself up into a seated position.

“Bedside table?” he asked, but Bilbo was so thoroughly distracted by the sight of Thorin’s cock jutting out from his body that he barely understood the words at all. It was hard and big and thick, so _thick_ , the base nestled in a patch of coarse dark hair. His balls were taut and gorgeous, and there was another jagged white scar that ran across the left side of his abdomen. After a moment, however, Thorin’s words sunk in.

“Oh,” he said, breath catching in his throat. “Yes, the bedside table.” He reached forward and gave himself a few easy strokes, trying to sate himself for the time being. Thorin rummaged around and came back a moment later with a wrapped condom and small container of lube in his hand. He nudged Bilbo’s hand away from where it was wrapped around his own cock, swallowing Bilbo’s desperate whimper with a heated kiss.

“It’s okay,” he whispered as he pulled away, settling himself in between Bilbo’s legs. He spread them wider, then squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his right fingers. He traced Bilbo’s entrance with a single slick finger, placing a soft kiss on his splayed thigh when Bilbo shivered. “It’s okay.”

Thorin’s fingers were much thicker than Bilbo’s own, and the persistent press of it made Bilbo instinctively tense up before forcing himself to relax. The breach of the first finger was familiar and foreign all at once, his body simultaneously wanting to push the intrusion out and take it in deeper. His head fell back against the pillows as Thorin pushed inside, stretching him slowly and carefully until it was all the way in.

He rocked his finger experimentally, gentle but intent, and Bilbo exhaled loudly as his body remembered just how _good_ this could feel. It wasn’t long before Thorin was sliding it all the way in and out, teasing the rim with his fingertip whenever he was almost all the way out. 

It was torturously slow and Bilbo was _painfully_ hard, but when he raised his head to tell Thorin it’s _okay, more, I want more_ the expression on Thorin’s face stopped him dead. It was such a _full_ expression, Thorin’s eyes heated and his mouth relaxed, as though there were a hundred things he wanted to say out loud but didn’t trust himself to voice. Understanding, Bilbo lowered himself back down and pushed back into the rhythm; to let Thorin say what he wanted to say with his body instead of his words.

A moment later Thorin dragged the finger almost out – only to to replace it with two fingers, the sudden increase in size making Bilbo _gasp_. It was a stretch; he could feel his body opening up, the fullness starting to make him clutch at the sheets and _tremble_. It was controlled at first, then harder, and before long Thorin was pushing his fingers in and out, fucking him with deep, forceful thrusts. Thorin’s fingers dragged against his prostate on every second or third thrust, making white noise burst behind Bilbo’s eyelids and small, helpless noises escape from his throat.

They were only a few thrusts into three fingers – _so big so thick, god, as big as him?_ – when Bilbo pulled his hips away sharply, Thorin’s fingers leaving him with a quiet _pop._ The sudden emptiness was devastating, but he wanted – he needed –

“I should – give you a hand,” said Bilbo shakily, reaching out to grab for Thorin’s cock. Thorin laughed unsteadily, easily grabbing both of Bilbo’s hands in one of his own and swiftly moving to pin them gently above his head.

“No need,” said Thorin roughly, voice in tatters, as he swept his eyes over Bilbo beneath him. “How do you want it?”

“Like this,” said Bilbo immediately, needing no time to think about it. Thorin nodded, taking him at his word, and released his hands in order to grab for the condom they’d discarded on the bed. He tore off the wrapper, then eased the condom down over his cock. After another squeeze of lube that Thorin fisted over himself, he reached up and took hold of one of Bilbo’s thighs so that they were spread wide and ready. Anticipation and heat were burning hot in the base of Bilbo’s stomach, and he had to force himself not to squirm with need. With his slick hand, Thorin reached down between them, angled himself in – and began to push inside.

It was brutal, at first, and Bilbo sucked in a breath as the thick head began to enter him. He blinked away the sweat that had begun to gather at his brow, pushing into the pressure instead of trying to edge away. It worked, and after a few moments the tip managed to ease inside. Thorin’s control didn’t break even though he himself was red and flushed from the effort; he kept pushing, inch after inch, until finally – _finally_ – he was buried right to the hilt. Bilbo fisted his hands in the sheets, squeezing down and then gasping out loud. The sensation of being full had never been so overwhelming before; it felt like Thorin was touching him everywhere, filling him up to the very brim.

There was a long, aching pause as Bilbo tensed, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. Every tiny twitch of hips was a tidal wave of sensation, every breath a challenge. Above him, Thorin’s eyes were almost closed with sensation. He was breathing heavily, hands trembling, as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stay still. Bilbo breathed and breathed, whole body pulled taut like a bowstring, waiting out the devastating pressure. Thorin licked his lips, eyes fixed on Bilbo’s face, and waited.

When his body was finally able to relax, Bilbo gave a little nod.

And slowly – concertedly – Thorin began to move.

It felt like being broken apart and being put back together again all at once. The burn and slide as he was filled over and over again left Bilbo choking on nonsense words, reaching up to wrap his hands around Thorin’s back and hold on to him like an anchor in a storm. He wanted to be touched – _needed_ to be touched – but he knew that it would all be over either of them touched his cock.

 Every roll of Thorin’s hips made sweet, searing pleasure throb inside him. It was all Bilbo could do to clutch helplessly at Thorin’s back and push back into the pressure, digging his fingernails into Thorin’s back and _pulling him closer_. For a moment Bilbo felt guilty for scratching his back, but the loud _moan_ of pleasure seemed to indicate that Thorin didn’t mind. He covered Bilbo’s smaller body with his larger one as he began to fuck into him harder, wringing tiny little noises out of Bilbo’s throat with every thrust.

 It felt so good – so _exposed_ , like every inch of him was laid out for Thorin to see – and Bilbo clenched around Thorin’s cock. He groaned when Thorin followed his silent request, snapping his hips to a faster, harder rhythm that left Bilbo _breathless_.

The pressure inside was building, taking over his body. Every other stroke was making sparks go off at the base of Bilbo’s spine, liquid heat pooling in his stomach as his fingernails dug into the hard flesh of Thorin’s back. It was too much, overwhelming every one of his senses, making every one of his muscles clench and his back arch, and –

And suddenly Thorin was growling, reaching between them and stroking him once, twice – and he was coming hard and fast between them, his head thrown back against the pillows as he gasped and spluttered and clenched hard at the perfect, aching fullness inside of him.

Groaning, Thorin fucked him through it, eyes frantic and looking as though he was holding on by the finest of threads. The dark hair on his belly was slick with sweat, his long hair a wanton tangle around them. Bilbo choked out a gasp as Thorin fucked into him, oversensitive and practically clawing at the sheets. He let out a desperate noise, clenched down hard – and then Thorin was speeding up slamming home over and over until his hips were stuttering. His whole body tensed as he came with a growl, his broad hands tight on Bilbo’s hips.

Still clutching at Thorin’s back, Bilbo couldn’t hold back a satisfied mewl as Thorin finished inside of him. His body was weak and trembling and completely fucked-out, but a dampened jolt of futile arousal sparked inside of him anyways. Thorin looked so gorgeous as he came, his eyes closed and mouth slack and his beautiful hair a hopeless tangle.

The sight of him made something beautiful and horribly, horribly longing twinge inside of him, and Bilbo blinked hard and looked hurriedly away when Thorin began to move again. He felt a broad hand stroke gently along his side before Thorin was pulling out, the sensation making both of them suck in a quick breath.

The sudden emptiness was jarring, and it seemed to Bilbo that the blanket of _heat_ and _want_ that had covered them so thoroughly – that had allowed them to be so very easy with one another – was growing fainter and fainter by the second. This had always been the awkward part for him, Bilbo knew, his mind wandering as he felt fingers trail lightly along his thigh. He stared at the space just beyond Thorin’s shoulder, feeling exposed and cool from the air, and wondered what was going to happen next.

His question seemed to be answered when Thorin moved, the bed shifting as he stood, and headed into the connecting bathroom.

 _Oh_ , Bilbo thought, disappointment flooding him with such abruptness that he felt slightly hollow with it. He pushed it away, rolling himself onto his side and reaching down to hastily pull the duvet over himself to keep out the chill. It wasn’t a surprise, not really. He shouldn’t have even entertained the notion that someone like Thorin would be interested in his company for more than a bit of fun. If he was honest with himself it had been all he had truly expected of the evening.

All the same, Bilbo couldn’t ignore the slight hint of dissatisfaction that twisted inside of him. Their conversation at the restaurant had been... well. He’d thought it had been lovely. It certainly hadn’t _felt_ like one he’d ever had with a one-night stand before.

He closed his eyes, feeling a little bit irrationally humiliated for no good reason. The sound of running water drifted in from the bathroom. It had been amazing sex, Bilbo reminded himself. Maybe Thorin would call him again some time.

He would wait patiently until Thorin came back to wish him goodbye, Bilbo decided. He would leave on good terms, at least. That was something.

By the time Thorin came back a few minutes later, Bilbo had already prepared what to say. He would wait until Thorin was dressed, then open his eyes and say _lovely time, wasn’t it – perhaps we can do it again some time_ and maybe they would share a goodbye kiss and it would probably be very nice indeed. He was all tensed up, eyes still closed and waiting for the rustle of clothes to begin.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, there was the flick of a light switch, the padding of feet across hardwood – and the cool of air rushing against Bilbo’s back as Thorin pulled up the duvet, sliding himself underneath with a rumble of contentment. Bilbo blinked in shock, completely at a loss of what to say. The room had been plunged into darkness around them, and he felt the broad warmth of Thorin’s still-naked body scoot closer and press right up against his back. A large arm wrapped around his middle, a hand pressing over the softness of his belly.

“You need to clean up?” The words were a low, sleepy half-whisper against his ear. Bilbo sucked in a breath as Thorin pressed a kiss against the back of his neck, his beard rasping gently against Bilbo’s skin.

“No, I’m... I’m fine,” Bilbo murmured back, and Thorin hummed drowsily behind him. He felt Thorin squeeze him once, pulling Bilbo tight against his chest before relaxing his grip. They lay like that, naked and tangled together beneath the covers, until Thorin’s breath began to grow slow and even. The arm wrapped around Bilbo’s middle eventually relaxed, the whisper of Thorin’s exhales tickling against Bilbo’s ear.

Blinking in the dark, Bilbo paused – before relaxing back into the embrace. He closed his eyes, still uncertain but so very grateful, and waited for sleep to come.

 

\--

 

When Bilbo woke up, awareness came on slow and easy. Everything was warm and safe, the bed soft and lovely under his back. Something hard seemed to radiate heat against his side, and there was something comfortingly heavy slung across his belly. Light tickled at Bilbo’s eyelids and he squinted against it, moving to bury his face against the chest of the person next to him.

He – it _wa_ s a he, Bilbo reflected sleepily as he pressed his face against the firm chest – tugged Bilbo closer, pulling him easily into an embrace. The man’s body seemed to completely dwarf Bilbo’s own, he was so much taller and broader, but Bilbo didn’t mind. Didn’t even open his eyes. It was nice, and warm, and he smelled so _good_. The man ran his fingers through Bilbo’s curls, dragging his fingers over his scalp in a way that made Bilbo let out an involuntary sigh.

“Good morning,” Thorin murmured, his voice low and sweet, and Bilbo’s eyes flew open against his chest. He tensed in sudden remembrance – of meeting Thorin in the park, of their date, of that _night_ – and Thorin’s hand stroked over his back soothingly in response as though to calm a spooked animal.

It didn’t work. With a jolt, Bilbo pushed away from the embrace. Thorin let him go with a small sound of confusion. Bilbo sat up, still blinking the sleep away, and stared at the man who was currently lying in his bed.

Even first thing in the morning, Thorin was unfairly attractive. His hair was a tangled mess on the pillows, his dark eyebrows furrowed in amusement. His chest – hard and broad and scarred, so scarred – was peeking out from under Bilbo’s burgundy duvet.

“You’re still here,” said Bilbo stupidly, staring at Thorin in mild disbelief. Thorin tilted his head to one side, as though changing the way he looked at Bilbo might make him more comprehensible.

“Where else would I be?” he asked slowly, seeming genuinely confused, and Bilbo scrabbled to find something to say. Something that wasn’t _usually people don’t stay this long_ or _usually people leave_.

“... well, it’s Monday, for one thing,” he said instead, trying for indignant to cover the happiness slowly blooming inside his chest. He crossed his arms, giving Thorin a stern look. “Don’t you have to be at work? It must be well past ten.”

“Mm, one of the benefits of being in charge,” said Thorin, a hint of cheek creeping into his usually-even voice. He gave Bilbo a smile, and it made him looks years younger and lighter. “I texted one of my employees and informed him I would be late today. Unavoidable diversion. Very important. Couldn’t be helped.”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo, grinning despite himself, when Thorin leaned up and wrapped an arm around his waist. The sudden force of being pulled down caught Bilbo off-guard, made him tumble haphazardly on top of Thorin’s body. He managed to land with a hand on either side of Thorin’s head, palms pressing into the mattress. Thorin smiled, his face so close, and Bilbo felt a pair of broad hands sneak under the covers and slide confidently over his back.

“I want to see you again,” said Thorin firmly, looking Bilbo right in the eye. His eyes were pale and certain, the rough lines of his face set with determination. His hands smoothed down to stoke over the rounds of his ass, and Bilbo let out a choked breath: he felt utterly pinned in place for all that he was physically on top. Thorin’s eyes flickered down to his neck, lingering over the spot he had worked over so thoroughly last night, and heat prickled at Bilbo’s skin as he realized that he must have left a bruise there. “Do you want that?” he asked softly, tilting his head to one side. His eyes were very pale. “Bilbo, do you want that?”

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted without hesitation, too much honesty in his voice, and Thorin’s smile nearly split his face with happiness. He leaned up off the bed and caught Bilbo’s lips in a kiss. It was close-lipped and sweet, both of them conscious of morning breath, but somehow perfect all the same.

Thorin pulled away after a few moments, his hands sliding up to smooth over Bilbo’s back. He sighed, leaning his head back against the pillows with a reluctant expression on his face.

“I do actually have to go back to work, though,” Thorin admitted sadly, and the put-out expression on his face was enough to make Bilbo laugh out loud.

“Go on, then,” he said impishly, extricating himself from Thorin’s embrace and spreading out lazily on the other side of the bed. Thorin gave him a pitiful look, in response to which Bilbo smacked him gently on the arm. “Go on! Get off to the duties and responsibilities of the cold corporate world. I’ll just be here. Writing. Mostly likely while naked.”

“You’re evil,” Thorin groaned, giving Bilbo one last peck on the lips before finally managing to get himself out of bed. His scars looked even more pronounced in the daylight, and when he turned Bilbo could see that there were a number of them on his back and one rather nasty one on his leg as well. For a moment, Bilbo wondered if he really did care – before deciding that he didn’t. They were part of Thorin, after all, and he was beginning to like Thorin rather a great deal indeed.

He threw on his dressing gown – frayed and worn and almost threadbare though it was – as Thorin moved to get dressed, heading into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee so that Thorin could take a mug for the road. Bilbo hummed as he boiled the kettle and measured the beans, the sound of Thorin puttering around in the bathroom so quietly intimate that giddiness was swiftly rising inside. He kept humming as the coffee brewed, his gaze drifting to look out the side window as he waited.

There was a black car parked outside Mr. Bombadil’s house across the street. It wasn’t a particularly remarkable car, but something about it struck him nonetheless. Bilbo frowned, trying to remember if the old man had mentioned any relatives coming to stay the last time the two of them chatted about gardening. He shrugged the thought away, spirits too high to be bothered with trivial details.

He was just pouring coffee into one of the travel mugs when Thorin came into the kitchen, hair tamed and wearing the same clothes from the night before. He smiled when he saw the travel mug, giving Bilbo a minty kiss on the lips in thanks before taking the mug out of his hands. He went to the fridge added a splash of cream before fastening the lid on top.

“I think I’ll pop home before I go in,” said Thorin evenly, giving Bilbo a long-suffering look. His lips twitched. “They’ve waited this long for me, they can wait for me to have a shower.”

“Fair enough,” said Bilbo, before pausing. “I had such a good time,” he blurted, the words sounding awkward and abrupt in his own mouth. He fidgeted with the sleeve of his dressing gown, picking at a loose thread.

Instead of being put-off, however, Thorin just smiled softly back at him. “So did I,” he said quietly, before leaning in to give Bilbo another kiss. This one lingered a bit longer, neither of them seeming to care very much anymore about morning breath. Thorin’s clothes were hopelessly rumpled already, and when Bilbo raised himself up onto his tiptoes he let out a small laugh of pleasure. When he reached up a hand to cradle his cheek Thorin’s touch was feather-light, as though Bilbo was something important to be protected.

When they parted, he gave Bilbo one last kiss on the forehead.

“I’ll call you tonight?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded. The promise – of another night, of something they had yet to put a name to, of _Thorin_ – making something warm and eager expand in his chest.

And as he watched Thorin walk back to his car, clothes wrinkled and late for work and smiling all the same, it felt as though they had the whole world in front of them.

 

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End file.
